The Man in Your Reflection
by mira-rr
Summary: "No, they don't spoil me - they die. They ripped all my strings in a row, scoundrels. They do not know me. They misinterpret. They fake me, throw me on half-sigh*."(c) Translated from Russian


Author:Руми Кагэро

A/N:

 **"They"** are countries that have ever had military or diplomatic conflicts with Russia.

The text is a continuous allegory.

And pathos! A lot of pathos! Be careful!

T/N: *poem by Vera Polozkova (СПТД (AIDS))

POV Russia

 **They** break into the house, sweeping away everything in their path. On the floor are falling pictures, feathers from ripped open cushions, fragments of an old vase.

 **They** peer into my eyes, climb into the soul, digging into it like a gourmet, in a dish from a roadside snack bar. They disassemble me into atoms, cut me into rags and still remain unhappy.

 **They** are looking for something in me, something that makes me go my "special way". They are looking for, but do not find. **They** shake up every thing in my house; look in every dark corner, hoping that now, now they are lucky.

 **They** turn me inside out; look at me under a microscope, and conduct experiments. Centuries succeed each other, but they don't abandon their attempts. I stand on them like a bone in the throat; I poison their life only fact of my existence. Not Asian and not European - neither fish nor flesh. Stuck somewhere in the middle and eventually became did not understand who I am.

 **They** open me with a scalpel; they look under my ribs and sigh with disappointment: "He is still alive." It is this that does not give them peace, they also poison me, burn, maim. They squeeze me dry, so that I can't even scream, but death does not seem to notice me.

"Is there a spell on him?" Scowled strict people in cassocks once, I for them as a heretic for a medieval monk. Already accusations have been invented, and witnesses to imaginary atrocities obsequiously assent, but only in the fire the suspect does not burn.

How many of these were, I do not remember, but when this boy comes to me, I was surprised. Well, why did he come? He's still a child! Golden strands in different directions stick out and the eyes are so innocent that I want to give him good advice that he doesn't contact me. To stroke him on the head and say that the "boy, understand, you do not need me at all. You should first grow up, sharpen your fangs, and freeze the soul a little. Others, older, they also broke their fangs, trying to reach me. Why do you need it, boy? "

He explores me with the enthusiasm of a fanatical scientist, who suddenly discovered a curious sample, and completely forgets that the sample is not a new one, but has long been explored many times by his predecessors.

However, he does not believe me, shakes his dishevelled head and bared his teeth so wildly, like a beast.

They, too, had once looked at me - like insane. The great countries that conquered so many lands, famous for their prudence and discretion, they suddenly turned into obsessive fanatics. They poured blood on the ground, spent the last savings, but they continued to reach me and it destroyed them.

But he was stubborn, gnawing like a puppy a plush toy, jerks his head, growls something through clenched teeth. He thinks that he will cope, what's special. And he's right, silly. Really special, the only one who can pull me to such a depth, from which I can no longer swim out, and not only me, he will take the whole planet with him. After all, he is still hot, reckless, if he decides that he should die, then he will do it with a firework. Make it thundered all over the world and then everyone understood, finally, what he really is. Those, others who were before him, also wanted to do so, but they couldn't, no one - except him.

He does a lot of things; he even found something for which all the previous ones maimed me - my death. And my death is not in the needle, which lies in the beautiful casket*and not in the nuclear warheads at the border - it's in me. My death - my people. They are my strength and they are my greatest weakness. If they forget about me, then no missiles or oil rigs will not save me.

A person who has forgotten what honour is, who has exchanged his story for other people's ideas, will never be able to defend his Motherland. This person simply does not want. However, I can't without my people's protection because they are my soul. They lift me from knees, and they push me into the mud, they love me so much that I feel bitter tears and they hate until to the sugary taste of Cola on the lips.

And this boy, with childish naive eyes, understood all this. Not the first, of course, but the only one who managed to get my people to forget about me. I do not blame them; it's really hard not to fall in love with him. He's so good, honest and fair. His house is always clean, tasty food and nice neighbours. He is perfect. And he shows people only what they want to see.

Therefore, none of them knows how he washes the blood off his hands before coming out to meet the guests.

He rips open my chest with a knife and gently whispers in my ear: "Nobody will believe you anyway, and you know why? Because my main rule is - without aggression - kill and smile! ".

The puppy turned into a wolf. But just forgot about the fact that once upon a time, he wanted to kill such people - as he himself now. That's the day when he first came to me, he was actually happy and didn't wear a mask of happiness on his face, like now.

"The whole world at your feet, those who are wiser, afraid and hate you, those that are weaker feel envy. And they all want to kill you and take over everything that you have won."

And I smile when I tell him that. I know that it rips up his armour better than my old army knife. Well, now it's my turn to dissect his heart, opening up tight membranes, blocking the blood flow and watching for how long will he last. Only why should I mess around with this, sort out his doubts and fears - I'm not a sadist at all. And I will not make him a lobotomy with the metal cover from the tin can find out how much rot and bitterness have accumulated there inside. I, probably, just smile again and as a control shot in the forehead, I'll say: "Look in the mirror, my boy. You've become like me."

T/N: death is not in the needle, which lies in the beautiful casket*- This reference to Russian folk tales.


End file.
